criminals on the streets aren’t half as bad as the ones living in mansions.”
Ashcroft’s smile hardened. Elisabeth might have imagined it: a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, a shadow of dawning realization.
“I hear you’ve made a miraculous recovery, Miss Scrivener,” he said smoothly, turning back to her. “Is that true?”
Anyone could have bathed Elisabeth, dressed her, brushed her hair, and brought her to the Royal Ball, even if she had no mind left to speak of. She knew that was what Ashcroft was hoping, even expecting: that she was little more than a living doll, incapable of talking back. Now came the moment he would discover that despite all he had done to her, he had failed to break her. The thought filled her with resolve, like a molten blade plunged seething into water.
“I did not recover,” she said. Gasps rang out around them. “I’m the same now as when you condemned me to Leadgate Hospital, on the recommendation of a physician who barely spoke to me. The only miracle is that I survived.”
Ashcroft opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off.
“It’s shameful to call that place a hospital.” She recalled Mercy’s sorrowful face, and knew she wasn’t the only girl who had remained voiceless for far too long. “The overseer, Matron Leach, accepts money from wealthy patrons who abuse the patients for pleasure. Or at least she did, before she turned herself in to the authorities this morning.” That had been Silas’s doing; he had returned in the early hours, sighing over the lower city’s grime.
Lord Kicklighter’s booming voice almost made her jump. “I say, Chancellor Ashcroft, is that not the same hospital that receives your funding?”
“I’ll be sure to look into the matter.” Ashcroft’s smile had grown thinner, and his eyes had lost their genial warmth. “Bear in mind, these claims are coming from—”
“A young woman from whom you expected to profit?” Nathaniel inquired, with a savagery that startled Elisabeth. “Matron Leach produced documents connecting you to the scheme, after all. Or is there another, more pressing reason why you wanted Miss Scrivener out of sight, Chancellor? Perhaps you could enlighten us.”
“I remember everything, Ashcroft,” she added quietly. “Everything you did to me. Those afternoons in the study. The spell you used on me. The fiends.”
Shock rippled outward. “My god,” someone murmured, “did she say fiends?”
Ashcroft was no longer pretending to smile. “These allegations are absurd. Remember, everyone, that poor Miss Scrivener was diagnosed with hysteria by a licensed physician. She suffers from extreme anxiety. Delusions.”
“I don’t think I imagined the fiends,” Elisabeth said. “They were in the papers.”
In the crowd, someone gave a nervous laugh. People glanced between her and Nathaniel, then back to Ashcroft. The atmosphere had changed.
Elisabeth held her breath. They had practiced Nathaniel’s next lines a hundred times.
“If truly you have nothing to hide,” he said slowly, his gaze pinned on Ashcroft, “I’m certain we would all like to hear why you were so eager to silence a witness in the Great Library investigation. By now, it almost seems as though you don’t want the saboteur to be found.”
A hush fell as everyone waited for him to answer. In the newfound silence, Lord Kicklighter was conveying information to Prince Leopold in what he no doubt imagined was a whisper: “Yes, Leadgate Hospital. That’s the one. The most disturbing accusations . . .”
When the orchestra started up with a flurry of violins, Ashcroft twitched. Several people took a step back from him. Lady Ingram seized her husband’s arm and stalked off, her ramrod-stiff posture indicating that she wanted no part in this new, unexpected scandal.
“Excuse me,” Ashcroft said briskly, offering everyone a forced imitation of his usual smile. “I have matters to attend to elsewhere.” Then he turned and strode away.
Everyone watched him go, openmouthed. Guests parted to let him pass. Heads bent together, jewels sparkling, as the news of what had happened spread like wildfire across the ballroom. Horrified glances followed Ashcroft’s departure. No one aside from Elisabeth and Nathaniel paid any attention to the palace servant who set aside his tray and, a moment later, tailed Ashcroft out the door.
The glitter of the chandeliers filled Elisabeth’s vision. The bubbles in her champagne flute ticked against the glass, each one a miniature explosion beneath her fingertips. Suddenly the ballroom was too bright, too loud, too full of people, all of them turning in her direction.
“Miss Scrivener?” An unfamiliar man’s face swam in front of her. Her hearing fluctuated strangely as he